


Chiaro di Luna

by turnedherbrain



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, First Dates, Humor, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-12-30 06:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18309653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnedherbrain/pseuds/turnedherbrain
Summary: Spending a week on the tiny Italian island of Capri seemed like a perfect place to get over a breakup. But then you didn’t consider meeting someone new...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The fic title is Italian for ‘moonlight’

This is the second morning you’ve woken up to glorious sun, the sight of seemingly endless, rolling sea and the melodic clink of metal rigging from the boats moored up below. You’re staying in a villa perched just above the main town on Capri, where the view is enhanced by pure white houses descending criss-cross down the hillside. Everything here is serene and undisturbed.

Escaping to this island after a breakup, your first thought was to do nothing during this week-long stay. Rest, relax, recuperate. But the small tourist office was advertising a walking tour today and you can’t resist joining in.

The group meets mid-morning in the tranquil church piazza. Your guide is a tall and tanned English guy: the kind of person, you think, who winters in Australia as a kayak instructor and then replants themselves in southern Europe for the summer season. He’s wearing a white linen shirt that sets off his tan nicely, and cream chino shorts. You try not to stare, because after all you’ve come here to avoid any hint of romance. But then he starts the tour, loping through the narrow streets as the gaggle of gaping tourists follows, and you become entranced by the sound of his voice.

He eventually stops at a pretty viewpoint, gesturing expansively to the Italian mainland opposite and encouraging people to take photos of the sheer cliffs and ink-dipped blue sea. You’re the only person not taking pictures, and he strolls over to you, evidently intrigued.

‘Not recording the vista?’ Up close, he’s ridiculously handsome, and you think you know his type: charming his way with the tourists and sleeping his way through seasonal jobs.

‘No. I figure I’ve got all week,’ you reply, determined to remain unaffected by his charm.

‘Oh? You’re staying on the island? I get mostly day-trippers on these tours.’ All said with a sexy, irresistible grin. _Oh shit. Don’t do it. Don’t fall for the fucking tour guide!_

‘Umm hmmmm,’ you respond nonchalantly, but you’re starting to bloom deep inside and are glad your eyes remain hidden behind sunglasses.

‘Then we’ll see each other again,’ he smiles, with a seductive certainty that makes you melt from your core. ‘I’m Gwil,’ he adds, offering his hand.

You hesitate, because you know once you reach out to touch him, that will probably be it, but then tentatively shake his hand. ‘I’m Y/N.’

...

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._

You’ve spent the whole night fantasising about the tour guide and you wake in a jumble of disturbed sheets and fevered thoughts. A swim. An early-morning swim will clear your head and return you to the relative equilibrium you had before yesterday. 

Tripping down the hillside to the nearest bit of water, you pick your way along the man-made rocky jetty and dive in, letting the cold salt water wake you fully and shock you into thinking about anything but that man.

Swimming parallel to the shoreline, you hear a voice call out: a voice you recognise. ‘Y/N! Morning, Y/N!’

Turning your head as the waves gently lap against you, you see the lean, handsome guide from yesterday. The one you’ve been having hot dreams about all night. _Shit._ He’s standing next to a pepper-red scooter, crash helmet looped casually over his arm, the other arm arcing in a cheerful wave of greeting. Momentarily, you consider swimming onwards, pretending you haven’t heard or seen him. But he carries on waving like he’s in the front row of a rock concert.

You swim back towards the rocks and clamber out, retrieving your towel and sandals. All the while, you sense him waiting patiently, and the thought of his eyes trained on you makes you slip and stumble on the rocky outcrop, cutting your palm on a sharp stone. Some seconds later, you find your hand cupped in his, as he regards your injury with concern. He’s crossed the rocks quickly and carefully helps you to stand.

‘We can get that patched up,’ he says, still enfolding your hand. His touch is warm and secure and... _Seriously now? You’re **really** going to do this? Get a hold of yourself!_ But you’re definitely not as dismissive as yesterday. Something about the calm, gentle way he’s treating you tells you to reconsider your first assumptions.

Five minutes later, you’re leaning against the counter in the welcoming kitchen of his house, while he stands close and daubs your hand with antiseptic. You try not to wince as he dabs the cream on, and see him smile to himself. 

‘What’s so funny?’ you say in affront, a prickly self-defence mechanism. As soon as you start to like someone, you clam up. 

‘Just... it’s not what I expected to find when I woke up this morning.’ He’s bent over, concentrating on rubbing the cream into your skin, but you guess he’s still smiling to himself.

‘And what _did_ you find?’ you question him, trying to take the edge out of your voice.

‘You. I found you.’ He states simply, then looks at you with a gaze so intense and appealing, you think you might stop breathing right there and then.

It seems like a minute elapses before either of you speaks again. You feel your body cooling under your towel, set against the heat of his closeness. Another step and he could be up against you, kissing you and...

Gwil clears his throat loudly, and something lights up inside you as you see underneath all the easy charm, he’s just as awkward as you are. Not the suave pick-up artist you’d assumed; not at all. ‘Let’s get you back, shall we?’ he suggests, his gaze going lower to your body draped in the towel. ‘You can shower and get dressed properly.’

The journey up to your villa is two minutes by moped, yet you’re clinging on to him and can feel the joint warmth of your legs tucked behind his, and the hard solidity of his torso as you wrap your arms around his waist.

‘Thanks,’ you murmur as you clamber off the scooter, now painfully aware of how you look and sound at each moment. You don’t dare glance up, in case the internal blush you can feel starts showing on your skin.

‘No problem,’ he grins, then hesitates before starting the bike growling into life again. ‘Y/N?’

‘Yes?’ _  
_

‘Would you like to have dinner with me this evening?’ He’s endearingly shy when asking, which is sweet and unexpected.

‘Yes!!’ _Nooooooo ohmygodisthishappening?_ ‘Oh, ummm, I mean, y’know, errr... yeah.’ Then you dash into your villa without a proper goodbye, as the blush is beginning to show and you are embarrassed to reveal it.

‘I’ll pick you up at eight, then?’ he shouts after you, amused by your sudden exit.

‘OK!!’ you fling back over your shoulder.

As you traipse through the villa to spend an indulgent half-hour in the shower, you feel like a Disney princess wandering through a forest glade with birds chirruping a song for her: amazed, enchanted and excited for what might, could, maybe, possibly, hopefully happen this evening.


	2. Chapter 2

Once you’ve had a long, daydreamy shower and more time to reflect, you suddenly crash back to earth again. You’re not prepared for the prospect of a romantic date. What were you thinking, saying yes? You decide on an emergency shopping dash as a way of getting ready for the evening, hoping that the few boutiques on the island which aren’t designer-y will have something in stock for you to wear.

Walking along the picturesque main street, you spot a pair of wedge heels in a display window. Perfect. It only takes a few minutes to try them on and make a decision. In a cluttered clothing boutique near the top of the rise, you discover a strappy, diaphanous dress that happens to be your favourite colour. Even if the date goes badly, at least you’ll be well-dressed.

Throughout the shopping trip, guilty thoughts continue to taunt you: _This holiday is meant to be a time for contemplation; self-discovery... not being distracted by the nearest available man._ But the man in question happens to be handsome, funny and sexy. You can’t blame yourself for wanting to date him, really you can’t.

…

Eight o’clock comes around quickly, and you hear the lilting chime of the villa doorbell. Trying to steady your nerves, you walk deliberately slowly to the door. You have to – you’re still getting used to the heels. Gwil’s on the doorstep looking expectant, and he takes a step back when he sees you. ‘Wow, Y/N. You look beautiful,’ he says admiringly.

To cover your embarrassment, you reply in an over-bright manner: ‘Thanks! I’m ready to go.’ Really, you should be complimenting him on how he looks too. He’s wearing rust-brown trousers and a white shirt that’s shot through with lines of harmonising colours. This man knows how to dress well without even trying.

‘You might have to ride side-saddle,’ jokes Gwil as you approach the moped, then he stops before you both climb on. ‘Y/N? One thing I forgot to mention about tonight – when I said dinner, I meant ‘dinner at mine’. Is that OK?’

 _Is that OK? Is that even a question? Of course it’s OK!_ ‘Absolutely. I can’t wait,’ you smile.

‘Good. Because I’m trying out a new recipe, and you’re my unwilling victim,’ he grins, before swinging his leg over the bike and nodding for you to climb on behind.

 _‘Unwilling’? Oh, I am **so** willing. _You need to gather up the skirt of your dress so it doesn’t catch in the tyre when the scooter picks up speed. This look is great, but definitely impractical.

When you reach Gwil’s house, there’s already a tantalising aroma of cooking emanating from the kitchen. He makes you a drink – ‘it’s a local aperitif’ – before busying himself with the final bits of the meal prep. You’re fascinated by watching him work: expertly filleting the fish, adding a blended herb and lemon sauce and swirling small amounts of olive oil over before putting the dish in to bake. He’s concentrating so hard on what he’s doing, you have plenty of time to regard him openly. Like everyone, he’s got cute idiosyncrasies – he frowns frequently, like he’s annoyed with himself, and rubs his beard thoughtfully.

As he’s working, you chat about your respective days, although you don’t mention most of your afternoon was spent daydreaming about the date and imagining all sorts of completely nsfw endings.

‘What’s in this?’ you ask him out of curiosity, swirling the crushed ice in your drink.

‘A liqueur from Positano; mint, soda water, sugar and ice,’ he smiles. ‘Do you like it?’

‘I love it!’ you reply, tipping your glass so he can refill it.

‘Would you like to eat outside, or in?’ he asks solicitously. ‘It’s still really warm, but it’ll cool off once the sun’s set.’

‘Oh, outside, definitely,’ you confirm.

A half hour later, after talking about life, your upbringings and the beautiful island, you’re sitting at the dining table on his terrace. There’s an uninterrupted view of the wide sea, a ribbon of deep blue, while the sky is an ombré shade of orange blending into pink. The nightly grasshoppers aren’t yet starting their chorus, so the only sound is a faint breeze caressing the cypresses.

The meal is divine. Gwil’s made _spigola_ – sea bass – with a _gremolata_ garnish, and a couple of side dishes: a beetroot, mint and feta salad with a homemade dressing, and some roasted vegetables. The effort he’s gone to is evident in every aspect of the meal, and he’s clearly an expert cook.

‘You should chef for a living,’ you say admiringly, tucking into the food.

‘I might be soon… kind of,’ he replies, looking pleased but also faintly embarrassed at having his expertise pointed out. ‘Some friends are opening up an exclusive retreat here. Yoga, mindfulness, art classes… that kind of thing. They want someone to do regular cookery workshops, and they know how I like to experiment and invent new recipes, sooo…’

 _So that means he’s definitely staying on the island. Hmmmm._ ‘That sounds amazing. Will you carry on with the guided tours as well?’

‘Possibly. I might figure out a way to blend the two things,’ he mulls. ‘After all, they’re both a form of theatre performance, right? You have to entertain people, as well as inform them. And if they’re not having a good time, I’ll soon know about it.’

‘Very tru – arrrgh!’ A huge pile of fur crash-lands on your lap, and startled, you pull away from the table.

‘Ooops,’ says Gwil, immediately lifting the crouching shape off you. ‘Sorry about that, are you OK?’ He turns to the furry rectangle now ensconced in his arms, mock-admonishing it: ‘Galileo, behave yourself! This is my guest.’

Galileo the cat regards you balefully, clearly resenting a potential competitor for his master’s affections. Once he’s decided that you’re not going to bite, he jumps down from his safe harbour and slinks away around the side of the villa. ‘He does his own thing,’ laughs Gwil. ‘He comes here for food and a bit of affection. Then he saunters off to stroll around his kingdom again.’

…

The delicious dinner finished, you wander to the edge of the patio, where there’s a low wicker sofa and a picture-perfect view. Gwil lights some citronella candles and you settle to admire the moonlight on the water, yacht masts appearing like dark matchsticks at the island’s edge.

‘How’s your hand?’ asks Gwil. You shrug and extend your injured hand, palm up. He carefully peels back the edge of the gauze strip you’d applied after your morning shower, then draws an invisible line a nanobreadth above the healing cut with his fingertip. ‘It’s getting better already,’ he smiles.

‘Thanks. I had an excellent emergency medic.’

‘Good job they arrived on the scene quickly...’

‘Mmmmmm.’

There’s a short silence, not so much because you don’t have anything left to say, but because you’re both expecting something and don’t know how to broach it. The amount of flirting going on is at ridiculously high levels.

‘The Moon’s really pretty,’ you say, admiring the misted aura it creates in the black sky. ‘I always used to think the dark spots on there were holes. My mum told me it was made of Swiss cheese, and I believed her.’

‘Well, astronomers used to look at those patches on the Moon’s surface and believe they were lunar seas,’ comments Gwil. ‘ _Il mare sulla luna._ They even named them accordingly: the Sea of Clouds, the Sea of Nectar, the Sea of Serenity...’ he starts to list.

‘How do you _know_ all this stuff?’ you question him.

‘Wikipedia,’ he replies, absolutely deadpan. ‘I’m reading directly from my phone. No, not really… I’m an amateur stargazer. I just like to look at the night skies and know what’s up there.’

‘Where’s the Sea of Tranquility? I’d like to go there,’ you ask teasingly.

Gwil turns to look at you, absorbing your playful tone. Leaning in very close, he points out one of the larger shadows on the Moon’s surface. ‘Right... there...’ he murmurs.

‘Do you offer guided tours?’ you whisper, starting to giggle.

‘Nope, sorry. Just a viewing platform, which happens to be located... here,’ he whispers back, pointing down at the couch you’re both sitting on and grinning that sexy grin.

You pretend to be completely focussed on the Moon’s chiaroscuro surface for a moment, but really you’re brimming over with excited, barely concealed anticipation. Should you say something; _do_ something?

Turning to Gwil, you begin to say, ‘You know, I...’ but he’s turned to you at the same time and has reached out with tentative fingers to stroke your cheek, tracing a line down and across your lips. He lets his hand drop, but looks at you fully, unashamedly, with that same intense gaze as before.

‘Do you...?’ he starts to ask, sitting so tantalisingly close.

‘Yes,’ you reply without hesitation.

He laughs. ‘You don’t know what I was about to ask you.’

‘I’m hoping that I do.’

After that, no more words. He moves closer to kiss you, his lips soft and warm on yours. You gradually fall back onto the couch, and pull him down with you, until you’re laid alongside one another, still kissing deeply. His hand moves smoothly up to your thigh and you curl your leg across his torso, so you can feel every part of him through the delicate material of your dress.

Your clothes soon lie scattered in an irregular circle around you, the moonlight bathing your bodies in silver tones. Every part of this evening has been perfect. Every part. But mostly, this part.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Joe Mazzello appears as a character called ‘Gio’. Ben Hardy is, um, ‘Ben’  
> • Translation of Italian lyrics that Gio sings in the bar: _And with my hands, love, I'll hold your hands / And without saying words I will take you in my heart_ taken from ['La Donna Cannone’](https://youtu.be/MVcaHiCnR-w) by Francesco de Gregori

_A  i   e  e  e e e eee_

is your first silent thought on waking. It’s a mixture of happiness and _ohmygod **this** happened_. You’re lying naked under a fleece blanket. Gwil’s blanket. On Gwil’s wicker sofa. On Gwil’s terrace. And Gwil’s lying right next to you.

‘Next to’ is a misleading description. Your makeshift bed is way narrower than average, so you’re slenderly wedged in, your head on his chest, your bodies making tessellated shapes. From the faint rise and fall of his breathing, you guess that he’s still asleep. As soon as you move, the protective arm he’s placed around your shoulder gently pulls you back into an embrace.

Hearing an unimpressed miaow from nearby, you look up to see Galileo has reappeared and is sitting upright on the patio wall, regarding you both with a narrowed gaze. He flicks his tail into an ‘s’ shape and strides off along the wall’s ledge. Human affairs don’t concern him.

Seconds later, you look back down to see Gwil’s just woken up, eyes squinting in the dawn light. ‘Morning,’ he smiles, voice husky. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Mmmmmm. Although I don’t think Galileo’s very impressed that I spent the night.’

‘Don’t worry, Galileo’s not impressed by anything. Would you like some breakfast?’

‘If it’s anything like the dinner you made last night, then definitely yes.’

‘I’ll try my best,’ he grins, swinging himself up to sitting. His sun-bleached hair is standing partially on end, an adorable mess, and he rakes his fingers through it to try and subdue the bedhead look. Fishing on the floor for something, he looks puzzled.

‘What’s the matter?’ you ask, distracted by his all-over tan.

‘My boxer briefs. I can’t see them.’

‘Oh. Oh – _I_ can!’ And you point a finger to where Galileo’s disappearing at the far corner of the patio, taking Gwil’s underwear with him.

‘Galileo!! **Galileo!!!** ’ Gwil yells, having no effect whatsoever on the escaping cat burglar. ‘Little bastard. I bet he’ll drag those down the main street in town later, like some weird hunting trophy.’

‘Ah well,’ you sigh, pretending to be sad. ‘You’ll just have to walk around naked then.’

Gwil’s response to that is to stand up and walk off towards the house with no hint of shame, calling over his shoulder: ‘No peeking!’

‘I already did,’ you holler back.

…

You spend breakfast time draped in the blanket, while Gwil’s put on a t-shirt and shorts. Shame. Surprisingly, there’s no residual awkwardness after last night: it’s like you’re a couple who’s sitting down to their daily breakfast, rather than two people who only just got together.

'I’ve got to go and take a tour group soon,' says Gwil regretfully, 'but you’re welcome to hang around here until I get back?'

'Mmmm, well. As much as I don’t want to walk the streets in my dress from last night, I really should get home. Maybe I’ll just get changed and then head back to yours?'

'Sounds perfect. And you can borrow a t-shirt as a cover up, so any curious locals don’t wonder why you’re so dressed up at 10 o’clock in the morning,' suggests Gwil. 'Although personally, I think that blanket looks really good on you.'

So that’s what you do. And ‘hang around here’ becomes a lot more than that. You reckon you end up spending less than 20 minutes at your villa in total over the next few days. Instead, you have a kind of impermanent base at Gwil’s house, which means apart from the time he’s taking tours out, you’re with him constantly.

…

The remaining four days of your time on the island are perfect. If it was made into a film, it’d be a sun-filled travelogue, centred on a montage of the places you go with Gwil – taking a boat out to the towering I Faraglione rock stacks; visiting the tiny, laid-back village of Anacapri; spending the afternoon at a small, secluded cove, swimming and then stroking the saltwater droplets off one another.

But your favourite few times by far are late at night-time. When it’s only the two of you and the moonlight, the rest of the world blank and dark beyond that. When you rush to be the first into bed, leaping on top of the duvet and giggling in a heated mess as you pull off each other’s clothes. When you are almost asleep and your bare bodies are touching, and he kisses all the way up your neck, warm lips on cool skin.

Throughout all of this, you’re aware of minutes and hours wasting away. _Only four more days… only three more days…_ becomes the insistent beat inside. Any fantasies you might have about Gwil abandoning Capri and coming to live back home with you are dashed early on, when he tells you how he came to live on the island.

'It was almost four years ago. I was living in London at the time, and I’d had a terrible twelve months personally and professionally. I’d stand on a Tube platform first thing, looking at the adverts on the wall opposite, not chatting to anyone. I’d spend my day at a desk, looking out on nothing but grey buildings and grey skies. And finally, I said to myself: no more gloom. No more living in a world where it’s always grey.

'A friend had got in contact and told me about the job here. It sounded idyllic, and the opposite to everything I was experiencing at the time. So, I sold up, gave away a lot of my belongings to friends, and moved to the island. Now, I wake up every morning and there’s no sound but the waves. Most days, the sky is blue. It hardly ever rains. It’s like my own personal paradise.'

'Don’t you miss family and friends back home?' you ask, hoping he’ll say there’s a homesickness calling him back.

'Of course I miss them,' he agrees. 'But living on an island like this has many advantages. One of which is: people are clamouring to visit you. Plus, I usually get home for Christmas, and big occasions like family weddings. Although every time I do go home, I’m reminded that I made the right decision to live here.'

Aside from the disappointment you feel about his attachment to the island, you do think he’s right in so many ways. Who wouldn’t want to live here? It’s alluring, it’s peaceful. But you have to ask yourself: is this real life, or is it just fantasy?

…

On the penultimate day of your trip, you go to visit Gwil’s friends Gio and Ben, who are opening up their luxury retreat on one of the uppermost parts of the island. It’s less than three kilometres from the main town, but the island’s hills are so steep, the getting there is slow. Gwil urges the moped up several slopes, turning at switchback bends. You’re surrounded on both sides by bleached limestone rocks.

Entering the almost-finished retreat, you’re instantly greeted by Gio, who clasps you in a warm hug and gives you two kisses, one planted on each cheek. Ben comes forward, offering you a more formal sturdy handshake.

‘It’s so good to meet you, Gwil’s girlfr-… ouch!’ Gio grimaces as Ben nudges him sharply.

‘Same here,’ you reply, trying not to glow. ‘And my name’s Y/N.’

‘Great to meet you, Y/N,’ smiles Ben. ‘Just ignore my companion here, he gets easily excited.’

Gio and Ben take you both on a small tour of the building. There’s a central atrium, off which are two yoga studios. Both of these have floor-to-ceiling views of the azure seas beyond. Gio guides you outside to a large rectangular balcony made of polished wood, explaining that this will be used jointly for meditation or art therapy sessions. The balcony’s edge is hemmed in by rocks, and you lean over to see the blue waters below, waves breaking like foaming feathers on the surface.

‘Oh wait, we didn’t show you the best part!’ says Gio, clapping his hands together and moving back inside, where he skips to the opposite corner of the atrium. ‘Here we are…’

He pulls back a screen to reveal an open-plan kitchen with three sets of countertops. There’s another balcony outside, which looks down over the Piccolo Marina, a number of tables scattered across it. ‘The cuisine workshops will be in here, of course, then people can eat what they’ve prepared outside. It’ll be small classes – eight people at the most.’

‘And what Gwil lacks in cooking skills, he makes up for in charm,’ adds Ben teasingly. Gwil just rolls his eyes and draws a hand across one of the black granite work surfaces. He’s already imagining himself here.

‘This looks amazing,’ you say, impressed by the entire place. ‘When do you start?’

‘We open in a couple of months,’ confirms Gio. ‘And I’m going to extract a promise from you before you leave, that you’ll return to Capri to visit this place.’

‘Oh, definitely,’ you say, meaning it too.

‘Listen, guys,’ adds Gio before you depart. ‘Ben and I are having a little celebration tonight, just to reward ourselves for all the hard work we’re putting in here. We’re thinking of heading into Naples, grabbing something to eat, having some drinks. Fancy coming along?’

‘That is, if you’re not too busy,’ jokes Ben, who’s a bit more sensitive to the fact you might want some couple alone-time.

Gwil looks across at you, waiting for your confirmation. ‘Sounds like fun,’ you say. ‘Count us in.’

…

It’s nearly nine o’clock when you debark the hydrofoil at Naples port. After nearly a week on the island, the sights and sounds of the city are suddenly overwhelming: the blare of the traffic, the wail of moped engines, the dirt and the heat and the crowds.

‘Uh oh,’ says Gio, regarding you with sympathy. ‘You’ve got island shock.’

‘What’s that?’ you turn to Gwil, confused.

‘Island shock? It’s when you leave the island and are confronted with the normality of city life. Way more people, way more noise. It takes a while to get used to.’ Gwil sidles his hand into yours comfortingly and doesn’t let go until you reach the place you’re having dinner at.

Towards the end of the night, having eaten and drunk your way around Naples, you end up in a wood-panelled bar, its windows made of intricate stained glass. The three friends have not stopped chatting or taking the piss out of each other all evening, and since Gwil has brought his ‘ladyfriend’ along, unfortunately he’s the target of most of their banter. He takes it all in good spirits though, and you realise what a great relationship he has with Gio and Ben, who evidently trust him to make a success of a major part of their business.

Gio has insisted you come to this bar, as ‘they pay the patrons to sing and play.’

‘Oh no,’ groans Ben, who’s clearly been with Gio to this place before. ‘He doesn’t need any encouragement to play or sing, believe me. And it’s not real payment. They just give us some shots of the worst firewater you’ve ever tasted.’

Gio’s really keen to get up and play, but the piano’s occupied by one of the locals, so instead your group knock back round after round of the infamous liqueur.

‘My mouth’s burning,’ you say to Gwil, sliding right into him on the banquette seat.

‘S’alright,’ he murmurs, his voice a bit slurred. ‘It’s just the h’alcohol content.’

Ben hiccups in agreement.

Finally, Gio gets his turn at the piano, and you discover he can sing and play surprisingly well. ‘This one’s going out to Gwil’s girlfr-… I mean, Y/N,’ he announces merrily, before launching into a well-known Italian love song.

Gwil stands up, swaying slightly, and extends his hand. ‘May I have the pleasure?’

Your skin starts to burn brightly as you think of dancing in this busy bar, all eyes on the pair of you. But then a few other couples wander near to the piano, swinging and swaying gently as Gio plays. Standing up decisively and taking Gwil’s outstretched hand, you join in the dancers, letting yourself be guided by his body and the music, closing your eyes as you try to fix this moment in your mind, while Gio sings:

_E con le mani amore, per le mani ti prenderò  
E senza dire parole nel mio cuore ti porterò_

The song ending, you pull yourself away from Gwil reluctantly so that you can applaud Gio. He does the same, but you notice that he never takes his eyes from you, and holds onto your hand again once the applause has died down. _Oh shit. Don’t look back at him. If you do, you might melt into the floor._

As the bar shuts up, the four of you traipse back to the port, hoping that you won’t miss the last hydrofoil back. Initially, you walk together like some kind of drunken musical chorus line, but then Gio pulls away and walks alongside you for part of the way, linking his arm through yours.

Despite his inebriation, he hesitates before confiding in you. ‘Y’know… I hope you don’t mind me saying this Y/N, but it’s hard to believe you and my man Gwil back there have only known each other such a short time. When you danced together… wow… it was like watching two perfect souls meeting. That doesn’t happen very often, let me tell you.’

‘It’s… amazing. _He’s_ amazing!’ you agree. ‘But part of me knows I have to go. I can’t live in a fantasy, can I?’

‘Why not?’ Gio asks gently, squeezing your arm in solidarity as you approach the port’s embarking point.

_Why not? Why not._

…

That’s it then. Your final night. The insistent beat of the countdown has subtracted to almost zero.

You and Gwil are sitting close together, hands clasped, on a flat rock in the secluded north-west area of the island. Hardly anyone comes here, and tonight you are the only ones. You can see a whole stretch of sea, and it’s both beautiful and peaceful. The moonlight on the water is a scatter of myriad confetti shapes floating on the dark waves.

‘I’m going to miss you. A lot,’ says Gwil, his voice strange. Knowing he’s trying to contain his emotion, you don’t dare look at him directly.

‘I’m going to miss you too. A stupid amount.’ You shiver, even though it’s not at all cold.

‘I don’t suppose we can make this work, can we?’ he asks, although there’s no substance in the question. It blows away on the air.

‘I wish we could. I really do. I’m just not sure how often I could visit. Part of me is running away with ideas, but another part of me wants to remain sensible. I can’t just throw away the life I have right now.’

‘I agree. You shouldn’t. Although the very selfish person inside of me would like you to. Let’s just try and enjoy tonight,’ he suggests, his tone subdued.

You don’t want to say anything more, and as he grips your hand tightly, you know he doesn’t either.

But more than anything, you wish for a happy ending. Somehow. Even if that’s not reality. You’d like a happy ending.


	4. Chapter 4

Goodbyes. You’ve never liked them. Even when you know that you’ll see the person again, there is still the upset of that temporary leave-taking. And when you think you _won’t_ see someone again, saying goodbye is so much worse.

This is why you’ve buried your face in Gwil’s chest, clinging on to him fiercely so you can remember the exact touch. You don’t trust yourself to speak. Instead you look up, committing every detail of his face to memory, every small crease and laughter line and eyes that reflect the startling blue of the sky.

From the end of the pier, the guard shouts the last call for the hydrofoil to Naples, and still you don’t want to move. Gwil’s strong embrace won’t let you go either. Just one more second. Two. Three.

‘You’d better go,’ he says, not trying to keep the sadness out of his voice. ‘I’ll see you.’

‘Bye,’ you reply flatly, breaking away from him. It must seem a cold, heartless exit, but that’s because you don’t trust yourself not to say everything you’ve stoppered up inside.

 _Don’t look back_ , you tell yourself as you step onto the boat. _Don’t look back._ But you do, only to find he’s swung himself onto the scooter and is already starting the motor. You don’t know this, but he’s put on the helmet to stop anyone seeing he’s crying.

...

Home is home. You soon fall into the usual daily pattern and find it becomes easier to blur the week you spent on the island, like an image slowly going out of focus. But you can’t forget him at all. You confide in your best friend, who looks at you and says: ‘Honestly, he sounds amazing. But you knew him for _a week_ , Y/N. That’s not enough to build anything on, is it?’

Still, you think, no-one really knows how you feel but you. Anyway, it wasn’t about the duration: it was about the impact. If you stand in a rain shower for a minute, chances are you won’t remember the feel of the rain on your skin a day later. If you stand under a waterfall even briefly, the experience of that deluge will stay with you as a sensation for much, much longer.

In the same way, the impact of meeting him, of being with him, is still present. You can recall each and every time you touched: a ghost of a caress that won’t leave you.

...

Appropriately, it’s a bleak, grey day at the end of the forgettable summer when you receive the invitation. A large format postcard arrives in the post, with a close-up of the moon detailed on the front. Someone has ringed a dark spot on the photo and printed ‘Sea of Tranquility’ next to it. On the reverse side, looping letters spell out the invite:

_Visit Capri to observe this year’s harvest moon.  
_

_Viewing platform open to visitors from 6pm on 18 September.  
_

It’s deliberately noncommittal, and there’s no name, but it’s from Gwil of course. The date is exactly a month from now.

That night, you re-read and re-read the short message. The following day, you send a couple of important emails. In a week, you’ve booked your flight. The harvest moon cannot appear soon enough.

...

You spend some time on the outbound flight finding out about the occurrence you’re due to see, in part because you’re ultra-nervous and need the distraction, but also because you genuinely would like to impress Gwil by having at least some basic knowledge. You know the moon-watching is purely a pretext; but even so...

 _‘The harvest moon marks the first lunar event of the autumn season, coming just days after the equinox.’_ Wikipedia reliably informs you. _‘Historically, the term ‘harvest moon’ was literal: this was a time when farmers harvested the last of their summer crops in the prolonged evening light from this moon, before winter came along.’_

The plane eventually lands: it feels like the longest flight you’ve ever taken. The moon can wait, for now. After landing at Naples, it’s not long before you are on the boat to Capri, viewing the white rocks rising up in the distance from the cobalt blue waters.

It’s strange and also wonderful being back on the island. You arrive early, and decide to walk along the coastline and then cut up the hill to Gwil’s house. When you realise that you’ll have to hang around in the street outside his property, you decide to sneak in round the side of the villa and surprise him.

This proves to be a majorly bad decision. The passageway is extremely narrow, with thorny bushes densely planted alongside it. Once you’ve committed to going on, it becomes more difficult to contemplate going back. By the time you’re nearly through to the terrace, you’re covered in scratches and your new dress has got a plethora of tiny rips.

As you squeeze past the final prickly branch, you feel a soft, silky shape rub past your ankles. Galileo. He sits on the patio, mewing, waiting for you. **_Now_** _you like me?_ you think, as he approaches and licks your extended hand in greeting. _Oh wait. He’s probably waiting to be fed. Which means..._

You hear the sound of footsteps coming from the house behind you, followed by a tinkling crash. Wheeling around, you find Gwil standing there, arms flat at his sides, a semi-collapsed cardboard box at his feet.

‘Shit!’ he says. ‘Y/N!’

‘Nice to see you too!’

‘I - I didn’t think you’d come. I was hoping... but I didn’t really think...’ he tails off, mouth forming a small ‘o’ of disbelief.

‘Well, I came! To see the harvest moon, of course. Nothing to do with you. That was just incidental,’ you lie, badly. That’s when you become aware that he’s gazing at a point above your forehead. At your hair. Oh no. ‘I climbed through some bushes to get in,’ you explain, blushing furiously. ‘I’m a bit of a mess.’

‘I can see that,’ he grins, then walks over to you and smooths down your hair, which has been randomly backcombed by twigs. He’s so close to you, you breathe in and forget to breathe out again. ‘You’ve definitely dressed for the occasion,’ he smiles in distinct amusement, looking at the many small rips in your dress.

‘Thorns,’ you gulp, a monosyllabic explanation, because he’s standing extremely close now and is looking down at you with that seductive grin. The same grin he gave you on the very first day you met him, when you swore not to fall in love with him. 

‘How about... you grab a shower, try and soothe those scratches?’ he suggests. ‘Do you have any other clothes you can change into?’

‘My suitcase got caught in the bushes,’ you admit.

That’s when you both look at each other again and give in to the ridiculousness of the situation. Gwil splutters, then guffaws. ‘I’ll try and extract it. Then bring it in the front door, like normal people do.’

‘I was trying to surprise you,’ you say sadly.

‘I know,’ he replies, stroking his palm down your arm reassuringly, setting off shivers of pleasure. ‘And it’s very sweet of you. More than sweet, actually. It’s impressive. I’m so, so pleased you’ve come. It took me the longest time to dream up that postcard idea, and even longer to post it.’

You’re both standing there now feeling fairly awkward, having made embarrassing admissions to one another. You decide to change the subject: ‘What’s in the box?’

Gwil looks behind him. ‘A telescope. At least, I hope it’s still a telescope. I’m going to set it up so we can look at the harvest moon later.’

‘Oh yes, the harvest moon,’ you state sagely. ‘An important event in the lunar calendar, marking the end of the long summer evenings. Traditionally associated with the farming harvest, of course.’ Gwil is looking at you strangely. No wonder: you’ve just recited a garbled version of the Wikipedia article at him. ‘Hmmm. Maybe I’ll have that shower now.’

‘Of course,’ he smiles in relief. ‘I’ll grab you a towel, extract your suitcase and then set up the telescope.’

...

By the time you’ve showered and changed, Gwil’s managed to construct the thankfully-still-unbroken telescope and is sitting at the edge of the terrace, watching the sun go down.

You go and join him, sinking gladly down onto the wicker sofa. Given all the chaos at your arrival, you’ve not had much chance to take in how he is. He’s looking really good, in a navy linen mix t-shirt and dark olive tailored shorts. He’s still got a summer tan, and is lean but muscular from the daily walking and swimming. Your stomach contracts as you realise he looks even better than when you met in the spring, and your mouth grows dry with longing at the thought of kissing him.

You’d bought some prosecco in Naples as a gift, and he pours some into two glasses.

‘What shall we drink to?’ you ask.

‘The harvest moon.’ You both chink your glasses, in anticipation of the night to come.

You ask Gwil about his cookery classes and the guided tours, about Gio and Ben, and even ask after Galileo, who has now been fed and has disappeared to prowl in the gathering dusk. In turn, he asks you about your home life, about your family and your job, and it becomes harder and harder for you to avoid telling him the truth. Eventually, when he asks where you’re staying during this visit, you have to confess.

‘I’m renting a house in Anacapri,’ you begin. You take a deep breath before saying the rest. ‘At least, for the next six months. I’m leasing out my flat at home. Gio’s even promised me a job, if I want it, up at the retreat. I’ve arranged a sabbatical from my usual work. I thought I’d try living here, you know? Turns out this island has more of a pull on me than I imagined. Plus, there are a few things about this place that I really missed.’

‘Like what?’ asks Gwil, understandably trying to process everything you’ve just said. He’s attempting to remain cool, but looks pretty stunned.

‘Oh, you know... Swimming off the rocks. The local cuisine. Those kind of things.’ _You.  
_

‘Hmmmm. Yeah, I can see why you might miss _those_. So I guess we’ll see a lot more of each other then?’ He’s being deliberately nonchalant. Neither of you want to admit what you’re really thinking.

‘I guess so. If you want to?’ A leading question.

There’s a long pause, while he looks away and at the thin red line of the sun still visible above the horizon. ‘Of course I want to.’ This is said with simple conviction, and you realise he’s saying what he truly feels now. ‘How about you?’

Gathering your courage, you say what you’ve been wanting to say since you arrived back on the island: ‘You’re the reason I’m here. The only reason.’

He considers his next answer, each second that passes tortuous. Turning towards you more, he looks at you fully, his expression earnest. ‘Y/N, I am _beyond_ ecstatic that you’re here. And that you’re not here just for today. That you’ll still be here next week. Next _month_. You have no idea how much time I’ve spent, thinking about if I’d get to see you again.’

‘Me too. I’ve thought about you constantly,’ you confess.

You sit there for a minute, unsure what to say next, while the gathering dusk settles around you and night descends like a deep black veil across the sky. The moon is lower than usual, and the pale yellow of partially churned butter. The harvest moon.

‘Do you want to have a look through the telescope, or…?’ asks Gwil. Even in the almost dark, you can tell what he’s thinking: ‘or…’ shall we just skip that part altogether.

You drain your glass. ‘I’d like to have a look. You’ve gone to so much trouble setting this up.’

‘Come on then.’ Standing up, Gwil helps you turn the dials to get the optimum focus. He stands directly behind you, his hands covering yours; subtly intimate. ‘What can you see?’

You bend and squint one eye, the other eye gazing through the viewfinder. ‘A lot of black.’

‘Zoom out?’ he suggests, his hand firmly moving your fingers so that the image retracts a little.

‘Oh shit. Oh wow. Is this…?’ you gasp, suddenly realising what you’re looking at. You can see the fine-grained detail, the flecks of grey rock dust, the indents of small craters.

‘… the Sea of Tranquility? You said you wanted to go there. This is the closest I can get you,’ Gwil murmurs.

You step back from your vantage point, understanding the significance of this sight. He’s done all of this for you. The invitation; the telescope trained on the one faraway place you’d wished to go. You reach for his hand in the dark, then softly step towards him, seeing the shadow of a smile. Standing on tiptoe, you kiss him for the first time in too many months, your faces lit up in moonlight. _This_ is your happy ending. This.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** Kind of inspired by the short film ‘Harvest Moon’ set on Capri, which is basically a big old advert for shoes and handbags, but then who cares when it features Gwilym Lee looking so many shades of sexy ;D


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